


All We Know of Heaven

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Drama, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: 8.17 coda. Dean meets Cas in a dream the night after their confrontation in the crypt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Had to get something down about this one. Yeah, yeah, me and 1000 other Dean/Cas fans, right? I'm not ashamed to admit I'm one with the masses here. Title taken, with a complete lack of originality for this fandom, from the final lines of Emily Dickinson's 'Parting' - "Parting is all we know of heaven / And all we need of hell"

**All we know of heaven**

 

Water laps at the side of the pier in gentle, soothing splashes, sunlight warming the back of Dean's neck as he places his fishing rod, carefully, across the wooden boards at his feet. He's been dangling the line for hours without so much as a bite, but somehow it doesn't matter. Maybe he'll try again later. In the meantime he's parched, throat raw like he's been shouting. Weird. But nothing a cool beer can't fix.

Dean pops the lid of the ice box next to his chair and reaches in. Stops.

"Wait," he says, looking across the lake to the idyllic line of pines beyond with a frown. "I know this..."

"We met here once before," a soft voice starts up behind him. "I thought you might like to return. It's peaceful."

"Cas!" Dean springs to his feet, almost knocking over the chair in his haste to twist round and face the figure standing at his shoulder, trenchcoat and twisted tie all in order, the angel as calm and collected as when he'd last seen him, blood still drying on Dean's jacket collar. "I've been calling for hours," Dean snaps, memories coming in a rush. Of course, that's why his throat feels raw, just a little bit of reality seeping into the dream. Cas is no dream though, Dean can sense that much. He's dreamt of Cas enough times to know the difference between the trappings of his subconscious and the real thing. "Where are you?"

Cas purses his lips for a moment, a line of contrition darkening between his eyes.

"I heard you." he answers. "I'm sorry, I couldn't answer sooner. To do so would have alerted Heaven to my whereabouts."

"Okay. And those are?" Dean pushes, dismissing Cas' apology and explanation together. With the guy running out on him every five seconds lately he has no idea how long he's got, can't waste time with pleasantries.

There's the slightest of hesitations before Cas answers. Just a breath.

"Not of import." He continues over Dean's scoff of protest. "I came to assure you that I still have the tablet. It's safe."

"Yeah, for how long?" Dean counters, stepping forward into Cas' space, staring him down.

He's imagined this conversation so many times since he left Lincoln Springs with Sam, hands empty of what he'd ended up risking his life for in that crypt, Meg a fading memory with the last poor soul she'll ever possess broken on the asphalt behind them, it's almost like following a script. Or a tactical manoeuvre in a chess game he didn't even know he was playing. Although he should have guessed. It's always fucking chess with angels. Well screw that, he's not some pawn of Heaven or this mysterious Naomi chick or anyone, and if the only way to get Cas off the board is to take him then so be it. All he has to do is go in on the offensive, keep him cornered so he can't leave again, _make_ him listen.

"Cas that thing isn't some museum piece, it's got serious mojo. All of Heaven and Hell are gunning for it. You can't carry the weight of it alone, man."

Cas dips his head slightly to one side, the line of his mouth softening with the vestige of a smile. It's not much but fuck it's a thing of beauty after the stone cold, unseeing gaze he'd been fixing on Dean only hours before. Just one of a thousand little things in the way Cas is moving and standing—hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed—that assure Dean _this is Cas_ , this is the angel he knows, this is his friend. As wide as the gulf between them might stand these days.

"And you believe you can greater guarantee its safety?"

It's not quite sarcasm, but there's some criticism there. A disbelief wrapped loosely in the tone, a mocking, that is both heartening and infuriating in how _human_ it sounds.

"Yes, actually," Dean nods, refusing to back down. "If you've heard any of my prayers these last few weeks you know that me and Sam, we got a _place_ now."

He's still too scared to use the H-word for the bunker. Tries not to admit he's even thinking it. One of the first rules of hunting is 'no attachments,' he's always known that. If his fuck up with Lisa and Ben was proof of anything it was that. Getting attached only makes it harder when you inevitably have to let go. It had been stupid to think otherwise about Benny. To think there might actually be a way for them to keep what they had in Purgatory in the grey, twisted complexities above ground. And yet. And yet he can't stop thinking that if he can just get Cas in the bunker then maybe... maybe they could break the rules.

There's a freedom in the place Dean couldn't have imagined when he first walked in, among those dusty halls and cluttered store rooms, the library with its rows of ceiling-high shelves, and showers with the best goddamn water pressure he's ever known. Dean hasn't felt freedom like it since—ever. The remoteness of it, the way it can shut out the world if you let it, reminds him, sometimes, of the isolation of Purgatory, its vast, echoing emptiness only highlighting how alone he is, barring Sam of course. But there's no monsters in the bunker, and there's something the vastness there has that Purgatory never did—a sense of ownership, of belonging. The bunker, the whole Men of Letter's set up, it could be _his_ if he lets it. Dean can feel it. A tingle up and down his spine every time he walks inside. A warmth in his chest whenever he slips on one of the embroidered dressing gowns or wraps himself in the sheets of his own bed.

If he could just be sure he could keep it.

But how can he? With everything else in his life still and always slipping away.

"It's warded up like nothing I've ever seen, man," he continues. "Trust me, it's watertight. Bring the tablet there and we'll make sure nothing happens to it, I swear."

There's a pause while Cas stares at him in quiet contemplation and Dean has an instance of hope. Then Cas is shaking his head. Fuck it, what is it about the guy that still, despite everything, leaves Dean hoping for the best?

"I can't," Cas tells him, and the words turn Dean rigid.

"Can't or won't?" he grinds out, all too aware of the last time they had this exchange, of the way Cas had advanced on him, eyes narrowed, moving like a tiger, stalking, ready to kill. And yet seeing that blade in Cas' hand had still sent a cold thrill of disbelief through Dean. Disbelief followed by the fiery burn of conviction because no, of course Cas would never take it that far, not Cas. Maybe once, but not anymore.

Surely Dean hasn't been reading things so wrong this time? Surely they're not about to start the same dance all over again?

No. Cas' lips part in silent exclamation, eyes growing briefly wider and soft with apology. Dean let's his shoulders sag in relief as Cas wets his lips before replying. Another double-edged human gesture. It implies conscious thought over how Cas plans to answer, which is something Dean's grateful for, for obvious reasons. But it also suggests unease over how the answer will be taken.

A valid concern since the reply is—

"Won't."

Dean frowns, not sure how to take that.

"I am free of Naomi's control, Dean," Cas goes on, even leaning back a little as though to emphasise he poses no threat. "My choice is my own."

Dean wants to be happy about that, god he does. It means this _is Cas_ , and isn't that all he wanted the whole godforsaken time the guy had been laying into him? Not for the literal, bloody pain of it to stop, but just for Cas to come back, to _be Cas again_. In those endless, agonising moments, Dean had felt like he could suffer another Hell of physical pain if only it would bring back the Cas he knew.

Only now, with that Cas here before him, telling him outright he's leaving Dean for no other reason than because he _wants_ to, Dean almost wishes they were back to trading blows.

"So you don't _trust me_ , is what it is," he spits. "Okay then."

The warmth in Cas' eyes is too much. Two-faced, fucking—Dean turns away with a shake of his head, barely suppressing a snarl.

"Dean—"

"Whatever, Cas."

"Dean, you're wrong." He's so firm about it Dean feels those embers of hope flicker into life in him again. "I trust you with my life. If that were all at stake I would hand you the tablet without hesitation." Dean feels the air shift and glances back to find Cas leaning closer, one hand raised almost to Dean's shoulder and hovering between them, imploring. "But it's not simply my own life it holds sway over. Dean, this tablet holds the secrets of my people, the future of _all angels_. I have to take that into consideration."

"Dude, what is there to consider?" Dean counters. "Your 'people' just tried to brainwash you, man. They tried to start the apocalypse, _twice_. They have _literally_ hunted you down and _killed_ you. These are the guys you're trying to protect?"

Cas lifts his head with a sigh, all but rolling his eyes as he turns away. But the impatience burns too hot across his face to be more than the vaguest shadow of the stern, emotionless opposition he'd shown before.

"I _know_ what they've done, Dean," he says, eyes dark as they flick back. For a moment Cas holds resolute, then his lips part in a deeper sigh and his gaze drops down, hands moving back to his sides where they rub, awkwardly, against the fabric of his coat for a moment. "And I know what I've done. When held in comparison, can I honestly call my crimes less?"

Dean finds himself shifting awkwardly at that as well. Because he can't exactly argue it, can he?

"Cas, of course you—you're not—" he starts, trying anyway.

"No," Cas interrupts, quiet but irrefutable, eyes meeting Dean's and holding there. "I have done... reprehensible things. Unforgivable things." Dean wants to cut in and say they're forgiven as far as he's concerned, but Cas keeps going and Dean loses the moment. "I can't judge them. And they are not all corrupt. There is _good_ in Heaven, I have to believe that." Dean thinks about Samandriel, about Anna, and swallows back his objections. "Even Naomi, she—what she did was wrong—but she meant it for the best."

And with that all the beginnings of Dean's sympathy shrivel and die.

"For the best?!" he repeats, aghast. " _Brainwashing_ you? Trying to _kill me?_ "

Cas sucks his lips together, at least having the decency to look contrite.

"She was trying to help me," he offers.

" _Help you?_ " Dean barks out a laugh. "With friends like that, who needs enemies, right?"

The way Cas drops his head in a weary nod pacifies Dean somewhat.

"Yes. Her understanding of my situation was... flawed."

"Try _psychopathic_."

"But all this aside," Cas presses over him. "I am still an angel. These are my brothers and sisters, Dean. My family."

That pulls Dean up short, heart beating a rhythm so hard it's almost painful. After what he'd said in that crypt, words as raw and painful as the beating itself, to hear Cas practically using those words against him like this is—hell, Cas might as well have plunged that angel blade home when he had the chance.

"Your family, huh?" Dean chokes, turning his head, as if that could somehow hide the break in his voice on the word. Because fuck it, of course, of _course_ , Cas would consider Heaven his family. How could he and Sam compete with fucking _Heaven?_ It was stupid of him to even think that they, the _he_ might—

"As _you_ are. Just as dear to me, if not—"

The pause after this stretches on forever and Dean can't look up, doesn't dare break the spell of it. Because what if he does look and the implication here, now heavy in the air between them and fanning the embers of his hope until his chest _burns_ with it, is destroyed by Cas' expression? A tilt of his head and apologetic look proving it was all a misunderstanding. No. Dean doesn't look.

"So you see my position," Cas continues after a moment, softer. "I wish only to keep you both from harm. To surrender the tablet to Heaven would no doubt be to surrender it into the hands of Naomi, which would be, less than desirable for you."

Dean scoffs lightly at that, risking a glance up. Cas looks calm now, all business as he offers his explanations. Telling Dean nothing more about the moment before. Which is perhaps for the best.

"But if I were to give the tablet to you and Sam, if you were to have Kevin translate it." Cas catches Dean's eye and lifts an eyebrow. "Can you swear you would not use it against Heaven if you could? If you thought you had to?"

Protests die between Dean's parted lips as he remembers Sam gasping in vain on the ground, absent his lungs courtesy of Zachariah. Adam coughing up blood in the Green Room and screaming Dean's name on the wrong side of a locked door. Lucifer staring at him through Sam's eyes, fist raised to deal a killing blow. Raphael standing triumphant next to Crowley as Dean and Bobby watch on, bruised and broken, from the ground.

Rid the Earth of angels and demons alike? No. He can't say he wouldn't try.

Cas nods again. Dean expects him to leave then, leave Dean with nothing but the sound of wings and a dark taste of disappointment in the back of his mouth.

But Cas doesn't. His eyes stay soft, without reproach, and he doesn't turn away.

"You see, I know you, Dean," he says. "You're a good man." Dean snorts in protest but Cas ignores him. "You will do whatever you believe is just. No matter the cost." Cas takes a breath and sighs it back out. Lines break out across his forehead and his lips turn down, but it's a frown of sorrow, not criticism. "Even to yourself. And I would not put that burden on you."

A breeze blows in from the water, ruffling Cas' hair and filling the air around them with the scent of pine. For the barest of moments Dean feels the closest to the dream's initial sense of calm he has since Cas first showed. God this really is a good dream, he's surprised he has the imagination for it. Or maybe Cas used some of his mojo to expand on the details, who the fuck knows.

And no matter how good the scenery is, that's still all this is—a dream.

"But this 'burden' you say you're sparing me, you're just fine taking it on all by yourself?" Dean answers, half reproach, half genuine question. "You're asking _me_ to trust _you?_ "

Cas takes the question at face value and gives a straight reply.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

Dean shakes his head, too exhausted by the whole thing to even know how he's supposed to feel about that.

"I want to, man," he admits, the truth of it slipping out before he can stop it, just like in the crypt, where his game face, his armour, had been literally broken apart. There's nothing forcing him to break now though, this is all him, letting his defences wear away. "But after..." He waves a hand, trying to grasp the right words, but as always they elude him. "After earlier, after leviathan, after Crowley and... and everything, I don't—I just don't know..."

He lets his arm fall, miserably, back to his side.

Cas offers no defence, just a couple of blinks and a sad look away.

Stalemate.

God, for a guy who's technically asleep right now Dean is so damn _tired_. He lifts a hand to his eyes and rubs them with his forefinger and thumb, hard enough to see spots in the black, imagining, just for a second, waking up to find Cas and Sam together in the Letters' kitchen, geeking out over some rare translation in the archives. Then the spots clear and there's just black and what even is this? Can you dream in a dream?

With a final pinch to the bridge of his nose, Dean blinks his eyes open again, enough to for a blurry image of tan and white to come back into focus. He turns away.

"Just... go, Cas" he mutters. "If you're going."

He waves, vaguely, behind him, eyes trailing over the still open ice box and discarded fishing rod at the end of the pier. Maybe he'll try and settle back into the scene when Cas is gone, see if he can't block the world out for a couple more hours.

Then there's a hand on his shoulder and Cas moving in to block his vision and Dean feels a second of irritation before sense memory takes over. It's like a switch flipping, the jump from pissed off to terror is so instantaneous, heart hammering in Dean's chest as Cas lifts his other hand, moving it to Dean's face, and all Dean can feel is stone floor beneath his knees, face slick with blood, arm an agonising weight of snapped bone. Since Hell Dean's become something of a veteran when it comes to suppressing triggers, but this is only hours old and not something he was expecting to resurface it such a tangible way. All he can do is stand there as Cas presses his palm back where he had before and Dean tells himself that even last time his fear had been unfounded, Cas had been moving to heal by then, _not_ harm.

But that was then, he doesn't need healing now, so why -?

Cas doesn't do anything for the longest time, just rests like that with his hand on Dean's cheek, and the quiet, unassuming nature of the touch slowly calms Dean back to himself as he realises Cas is putting little to no pressure on him. Dean could break free easily and just to check he shifts a little, jerking his face away. Cas' hand doesn't follow. In fact it pulls back a little, the hand on Dean's shoulder also easing off.

"Dean, I—" Cas whispers, fingers reaching forward again, then stopping.

His eyes dull, head lifting, and Dean can practically feel the change in the angel's body, sensing in the way the warmth between them starts to fade that this is the moment he'd been fearing, this is when Cas flies away.

It's an unconscious move, much like it had been before, the way Dean's arm reaches up, fingers gripping tight round Cas' sleeve. A gesture anticipating loss, begging a return.

It was unnecessary before, the Cas Dean thought lost already standing found again. But this time it makes a difference, this time Cas' eyes flick from Dean's face to his hand and back again and the tension in him, the beginnings of his flight, melts away. His lips part, face clouding with what looks like pain, and he reaches forward again, fingertips pressing one at a time to Dean's brow, just above his left eye, then caressing along Dean's hairline, down his jaw, over his lips.

Cas takes Dean's chin between curled fingers and thumb, holding Dean's face up to his own, and through it all Dean just holds still, permitting the touch, following it with his own hand still locked in the fabric of Cas' coat.

Dean lost understanding of what this was when his fingers first touched Cas' sleeve. Now all he can do is feel his way through it, watch Cas' face for a clue and try and ignore how nice it feels having someone hold him like this, so soft. How gratifying it is to be able to trust himself to someone, even for a moment. To be able to trust himself to Cas.

"I have lost you a thousand times," Cas breathes, close enough that Dean feels the gentle heat of it on his cheek. A thousand? Yeah, it sure does feel like that sometimes. "It never gets easier, letting you go."

His eyes roam Dean's face, like he's trying to map it out in his mind, like there's nothing so important as the memory of Dean's mouth and eyes, the curve of his cheekbones, the freckles on his nose. Like having Dean here, now, is a wonder. A miracle Cas never expected.

It makes Dean want to scream at him—you idiot, of course I'm here, I've always been here, I'll always be here! But what he chokes out instead is—

"Stay then."

Which is basically the same thing, when he thinks about it.

There's apology in Cas' eyes when they meet his in response and no, no, that's the last thing Dean wants.

"Just this one time, Cas, come on," he presses.

Begs, rather. Something he swore long, long ago he'd never do, all the way back when his dad took him from the shadow of their burning home and told him 'be strong.' Dean decided there and then he'd rather not speak at all than show his weakness by begging. And save a few painful exceptions he's stuck to that promise. So why is it, he wonders, that so much of what he says to Cas sounds like it's coming from him on his knees? That moment in the crypt no more than a literal enactment of what's been inside Dean for weeks now, months, maybe even years.

"Stay."

But Cas drops his hand. Not far, only down the curve of Dean's neck, but it still feels like a loss. Perhaps it's the way the move dislodges Dean's hand from its grip, leaving his arm to hover, empty, over Cas' shoulder.

Then Cas shakes his head, dropping it down so Dean's eyes fall on the dark mess of Cas' hair.

"I have to do this, Dean," he mutters.

"No, you _don't_ ," Dean insists, hand ghosting just over Cas' shoulder and down the line of his back. "This isn't on you."

Cas pulls up with a breath, the gaze he fixes on Dean pained but determined.

"No," he agrees. "But after everything... I _have_ to do this. For _myself_. Do you understand?"

Dean wants to tell Cas he can do it for himself, whatever 'it' even is, because it feels like they're talking about more than protecting the tablet now, with Dean and Sam by his side. But he gets the feeling that might be missing the point somehow. So he just frowns in silence.

"I have to do this," Cas repeats, like a mantra. "But... but after..."

Dean blinks. There's an 'after'?

Of course, now he thinks about it, there's always an 'after.' There was an 'after Hell' and 'after the apocalypse' and 'after the leviathan' and even 'after Purgatory.' It's just that Dean's never accounted for the 'after,' never really imagined, not once in all those times, that it was something he'd live to see.

But there's going to be an 'after we close the gates of Hell,' damn straight there is. Now it's Sammy doing the trials and not him, Dean's not going to let that be the end of his little brother, even if he has to drag himself along with Sam into an unexpected, unlooked for, future in order to do it.

So... why _can't_ there be an 'after' for him and Cas?

He'd let himself imagine, sometimes, in those rare moments of peace while Benny, and later Cas himself, had kept watch and Dean had been able to catch a few hours sleep, what he and Cas might do after Purgatory. How he'd sit Cas through _Star Wars_ and _Indiana Jones_ , at least. Teach Cas pool so he could help him and Sam hustle. Take him out for pie and burgers and get Cas on side the next time he mocked Sam's baffling taste in rabbit food. Show Cas how to dismantle and clean a gun, how to work one, how to shoot. Get him to try out some different clothes once in a while. Go to a bar together and share a drink.

At the time Dean figured Cas might have some future plans of his own as well. It had been on the tip of his tongue once or twice to ask him, but then some monster would show up and they'd have to fight, or run, or both, and he never did. Then it turned out Cas' only plans for the future were not to have one, so Dean buried his thoughts deep and turned his focus back to what he knew best—hunting, living each day after the other, waiting for that not far off morning he wouldn't be waking up to see.

But now Cas is planning a future after all?

"After?" Dean repeats, and his hope is an inferno.

And Cas is nodding, fingers curling about the back of Dean's neck, fingernails scraping skin, light, in a way that has Dean's nerve endings burning with promise.

"After... perhaps, we—"

Then there's darkness and the sound of retching. Loud. Echoing.

Dean's eyes open to the clean, off-white paint of his ceiling, gloomy in the current darkness of his room, and for the first time since he started opening his eyes to it the sight lacks a thrill.

The retching noises turn to coughing, from the kitchen probably, and any blame he might have considered putting on his brother for waking him is smothered by concern. Damn it, Sam.

Stumbling, wearily, from his bed, Dean gropes for the robe he left on the door handle after his shower earlier. Couldn't even think of sleep until he'd washed the dirt of the crypt off him. Until he'd cleaned up the blood on his jacket as best he could.

"Sammy?" he calls as he drapes the fabric over his shoulders, fumbling with the cord at his waist.

There's a sudden, guilty, pause to the coughing. Then Sam calls weakly back.

"I'm—" Cough. "—okay."

"Yeah, and I'm Dolly Parton. Hold on."

Reaching through the door, Dean pats the wall outside until he finds the light switch, flooding the corridor beyond in the bunker lights', apparently magic, glare. As he blinks against the shock of this Sam continues to splutter reassurances.

"No, really it's—" Cough. "—it's nothing new, Dean. I swear. I got it. Just—just go back to sleep."

Like that's even an option now. Not only because of Sam but because of what he's just woken from. Dean doesn't know what's more unnerving—the thought that he might get back to that pier and find it empty, or that he might find Cas waiting for him, ready to pick up where they left off.

"Nah, I'm awake now," he shouts. "How about we see if this place has cable, huh?"

The indulgent laughter that travels down the corridor in response makes Dean smile.

"Okay, fine," Sam answers, still scratchy but already sounding better. Seems he wasn't lying about the retching being under control. He's just not working to hide it like he was. Which is something. "But nothing x-rated!"

Dean grins some more at that, but the smile fades as he reaches back to shut the door. Because it doesn't matter how many flicks they watch together, or how open Sam is about what's happening to him, at the end of the day Sam's the one living these trials, he's the one who's got to deal with this crap, and Dean's just got to let him, he doesn't have a choice.

And now he's supposed to let Cas go do his own thing as well?

Letting go never does get any easier, Cas was right there.

But... if there's an 'after,' then maybe... maybe, at least this time, letting go might be okay. Maybe letting go doesn't have to mean forever. Dean might be able to do it then, if he knew there'd be a chance to hold on again later.

"Okay, fine," he mutters, glancing up. It doesn't matter that, logically, he knows Cas isn't up in Heaven, it's just instinctive to look up when he prays. He'll blame Pastor Jim's Sunday School for that one. "But listen, if you reach Mount Doom, there's not a chance you're climbing that sucker without me, you understand?"

Of course Cas won't, Dean thinks, as he clicks his door shut and heads down the corridor to the kitchen. But if he has to invade another dream so Dean can explain the reference, well, that won't be so bad.

 

 

_**~ fin ~** _


End file.
